Chapter 1 – It All Started After a Plane Hijacking with Billy Joel

Chapter 1

It was midnight and the Tokyo airlines flight 881 was halfway to Chennai. Taking red eye flights used to be fun until the movie Red Eye came out. Movies have a tendency to ruin things, like how Pretty Woman ruined hookers. Most of them aren’t as nice and charming as Julia Roberts. Some are even guys, which isn’t so bad, but it’s false advertising.

The plane was filled with mostly Americans, other than the few other people who don’t matter to this story. Post 9/11 you really start to notice who’s on the plane with you, and let’s be honest, you’re more comfortable in a plane full of white people, even if you’re on a plane from Japan to India. This, of course, is not true for albinos. If you’re on a plane full of albinos, change your flight.

A lot of people think that planes contain the demographic mixture of the departure city and the destination, but they’re more like bad breath containers. Especially at the butt-crack of dawn, when bad breath is at its most rampant.

The night air was thick with the rubbery smell of people-breath. I bet most of them hadn’t even brushed their teeth in hours. It smelled like they had all chewed on a condom (Not a used one. That would be gross. Not the same condom either).

For every precaution we take here in our US airports, there are a hundred other airports with fewer restrictions. They’re all a lot more fun than our airports, like when you’re taking shots in the cockpit with the pilot, but there are inherent risks with doing that. It’s kind of like being a teacher who has sex with their eighteen-year-old student, which is a total blast but frowned upon in a lot of cultures.

The Tokyo airport must have been really lax, because something bad and completely avoidable was about to happen. Duh. You wouldn’t really want to read this if something bad wasn’t going to happen. It’s the same reason you go to an alcoholic’s wedding.

In the middle of the plane was our hero, Weyland, your typical mid-50s military guy. Also, your typical Weyland. His haircut was exactly what you’d get if you went to a barber and said “give me the Weyland.” Don’t do that though, because it’s an awful haircut.

Weyland kept his eyes on the wing of the plane, expecting to see a creature and do everything that John Lithgow didn’t do to be the hero in that Twilight Zone movie. It’s important to know now that there will be no creatures on the wing, and that Weyland’s disappointment doesn’t subside once throughout this story.

In the deep back row was your typical creepy guy. The kind that masturbates in public places. Not in a perverted way like when people are around, but more like the type of guy who goes to a vacant restroom and rubs one out to make it through the day. We’ve all done that. For his integrity it’s important to note that he wasn’t masturbating at the time. But if anyone had actually chewed on a condom, it was probably him.

Weyland already had his radar on the creepy guy. Every once in a while he would even make light beeping noises with his mouth as if he was running radar.

There was a girl next to the creep, and Weyland wanted to touch her boobies, so he knew the creep did too. She was a Tara Reid type. You know, the type of femme fatale who has way too many daddy issues. If she had two dads it would be a total disaster for her. Just way too many daddies and issues.

Much to Weyland’s delight, sitting in front of him were Billy Joe (Greenday) and Billy Joel (Billy Joel). One of them looked really greasy and old, the other one was Billy Joel.

Rhonda, the flight attendant, walked up and down the aisles. She had a look on her face like she smelled a really bad fart. Or maybe it was just that she was suspicious of this flight. She probably went to a palm reader in Vegas who told her something bad was going to happen. Girls like Rhonda do that a lot. It’s better than horoscopes because sometimes you become close friends and have a drink together. You can’t have a drink with a horoscope. I imagine if you did it would be really awful.

And that’s who was on the plane. Pretty annoying, right?

Suddenly without warning, because there’s no real way to warn anyone about it, the plane had a really bad convulsion, or “turbulence” if you’re a snob. The plane shook so badly that everyone popped up in their seats. It was bad with or without a seatbelt on, but for different reasons. You could spend hours thinking about all the reasons.

Everyone settled back in, until the second convulsion happened. They all popped up in their seats again. Those that had changed their seatbelt arrangement since the first blast felt a whole new type of discomfort.

Weyland decided to be a total Weyland about things and say, “It’s going to be OK. I was in the military,” in a really lame voice (his own). It was one of those moments where everyone thought, “fuck that guy” but they also figured he could dig a pretty good hole if they needed him too, so they didn’t say anything. If the plane went down and they survived, there would probably be a lot of hole-digging for one reason or another (graves, shelter, underground pig cookouts. Mmmm, wild pig).

The crowd definitely needed reassurance. Military guys like to assure everyone that everything’s OK. It usually works too.

It didn’t this time.


In the cockpit the pilot had a gun to his head, because of course he did. The man with the gun was being very forceful. I’d even go as far as to say he was being rude. It just didn’t seem that it was any way to treat a pilot, whether you’re hijacking his plane or not.

“Turn this plane around to Las Vegas.”

“We’re going from Tokyo to Paris. That’s so out of the way,” he was pretty proud of that assessment, but it was only met with a stiff gun jab to his head.

“Shut up and take us there.”


At the control tower, the field monitor, Jared, leaped to his feet, or leapt (again, for snobs)-

“Did you hear that?! He said terrorist.”

Sigh. Oh, Jared.

“You say that every week,” said his co-worker who gets more tail than him.

“You didn’t hear that? The plane is being held hostage!”

Yeah, you can see why he doesn’t get any tail.

Back at the plane the hijacker slapped off the radio. He wasn’t very happy that the pilot had turned the radio on, but there’s nothing he could really do to retaliate since he didn’t know how to fly a plane. Note to all – Travolta learned. You can too.

The guy back at the tower could hear a voice come through the radio, “Everything is fine here. No terrorists.” This was enough to quell the tower’s fears since it was easier to move on than to report it. The last thing you want to do is report something like that. So much paperwork. People like to shoot the messenger, too.

I’m pretty sure that’s how Paul Revere died. Either that or AIDS.


In the aisle, Billy Joel and Billy Joe were singing what could only be described as a great song, that Billy Joe was absolutely ruining. The plane cheered, begging for another song.

“And so it goes, it’s all rock and roll to me, Piano Man,” slurred Billy Joel in one of many glorious puns to come. All the passengers were lost in Billy Joel’s sweet, tangy words, and Billy Joe’s labored singing. They were too lost to smell something fishy.

Dinner was being served.

Weyland started to connect the dots. It was a hippo. He put the Highlights magazine away and started to notice something. This was no normal flight. He surveyed the room like he was taught. One – the pilot hadn’t said anything over the loud speaker following the turbulence. Two – the plane had suddenly shifted direction. 3 – The people.

He stood up, “This plane ride is too perfect. What are the chances we would have two American rock legends and me, an American hero, all in one plane?”

Everyone started to see Weyland’s point, until they remembered how annoying he was. They got easily distracted when the pervert popped up and asked for the Billies to play another song.

Billy Joel replied in song, “You may be right. Just the way you are.”

Weyland made eye contact with Rhonda, who looked like she needed to tell him something. A little bit of blood rushed to his penis, but he realized it wasn’t that she wanted to get it on. She was scared, not horny – emotions he had often confused for each other.

Rhonda chimed, “Could the person who looks like the strongest guy in the room come help me with something?”

Billy Joe knew it wasn’t him but he tried to stand up anyway. His seat belt caught him and he let out a pathetic little fart that no one heard but Billy Joel. Luckily Billy Joel had been farting silently for 45 minutes straight and knew how to keep a secret.

Whether he liked it or not (which he very much did), Weyland had to be the hero again. He got up and escorted Rhonda to the back cabin with the calm of someone who had silently followed women before.

The pervert took this as a chance to get closer to Billy Joel.


“I think the plane is being hijacked,” said Rhonda over the clacking of coffee dishes.

Weyland stopped clacking the dishes together. More blood went to his penis.

“I know,” said Weyland, “You chose the right man to help you.”

His brashness and bad haircut made her doubt him, but all of her fears were erased as he reached into his shirt and pulled out the chain around his neck – his dog tags, and by dog tags I mean a necklace that said “WAR” on it, meant to look like dog tags. He also had a glittery necklace that said “slut” in his back pocket. “Now let’s get this plane back.”

Inside the cockpit the pilot nervously gripped the controls, even though it was on autopilot. The pilot was a little stressed because the hijacker was one of those guys that talks at you, not with you, so the conversation sucked. Some people, right?

Weyland burst through the door and kicked the hijacker in the back of the head.

Then kept doing it because one kick wasn’t enough. The hijacker looked like he was tumbling down stairs in place. It was actually pretty incredible and everyone there could have watched it for hours. Too bad the hijacker was killed on the 9th kick.

Weyland kicked 43 times.

In the cabin, no one could hear a thing over Billy Joel’s blather-singing. He was acting drunk even though everyone saw that he only had two drinks. Then they all remembered that 15% of Billy Joel’s blood is ethanol.

The pilot was pretty beaten up after Weyland had started kicking him too.

“Jesus, why did you do that?” asked the Captain, massaging his head wound.

“It’s something I learned in training. In the military.”

The pilot shook off the stupid answer, “There’s another hijacker. I don’t know who it is, but they must be in the cabin.”

Weyland assured them, “Just keep this plane in the air.”

Ugh, does he ever just turn it off?


The airplane cabin turned into a full-on concert and demonstration of Billy Joe’s inadequacies. It was like a circus but with Billy Joel music, no animals, magic, tricks, or ring. At this point Billy Joel was completely drunk, and pulling puns out faster than he could let out gas, which was VERY fast.

Everyone was having a good time, except for the pervert, who was frequently checking his watch. He seemed to cringe with every syllable sung, unable to take much more. Oh, yeah. Did I mention he was the other hijacker?

The creep leapt up with a gun, “Everybody shut up! This plane is getting hijacked!”

“I knew it!” shouted Billy Joe. He didn’t.

The hijacker smacked Billy Joe across the face with his gun and everyone gasped. They were sad he didn’t shoot him.

“No more singing!” shouted the hijacker.

Billy Joel, a poet as always point out, “we didn’t start the fire.”

Everyone cheered except for the pervert.

“Shut up, you hack!” He slowly peeled away the skin mask he was wearing to reveal that he was none other than Jerik Waters, a man no one knew or had ever heard of.

“I’m taking this plane down because of these two arseholes!” pointing at the Billies.

“This doesn’t make any sense!” shouted Billy Joe, which is true about everything until it gets explained.

He continued, “I’ve wanted to be a star for as long as I can remember. A large, gaseous being in the sky. Then I realized that’s impossible so I decided I wanted to be a singer. I sang every day. I loved it so much it’s all I could ever think about. Day and night, without rest, I would practice.”

They were already bored out of their wits. Billy Joel was buying things out of Skymall and Rochelle, the slut, was eating her hair – with a knife and fork.

“Listen to me!” his voice boomed through the plane.

Billy Joel put the Skymall away to reveal his erection, and Rochelle stopped eating her hair, which would do nothing to stop the now deadly bezoar from growing inside of her.

“Like I said, I sang every day. Day and night, without rest, I would practice-“

“I like Daughtry,” chimed Rochelle, cross-eyed to the verge of aneurism.

“Me too!” Billy Joel added.

“For Christ’s sake, shut the fuck up!”

He raised the gun in the air and “Bang!” he said with his mouth. It still got the point across. The plane hushed themselves, letting Jerik proceed. It was his villain’s right to give a speech.

“I sang every day. I wanted so badly to be like Billy Joel. I spent every waking hour practicing, performing, and sacrificing everything just to be a shred as good as him. He was my hero. I even had a Billy Joel action figure, which turned out to be a Tim Curry action figure, but I loved it just the same. That all came crashing down when I met him outside of a concert at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk. I had spent my last dollar just to get there. But when I met him he reeked of alcohol and called me a ‘piglet dyke.’ That day I vowed that I’d get revenge on him.”

Suddenly someone shouted, “Can’t we just kill Billy Joe?” It was Billy Joe.

Jerik erupted, “You’re all dead anyway!”


After sneaking into the plane cargo hold, Weyland was starting to feel really light-headed because of all the blood in his penis. Rhonda was pacing back and forth.

“Did you hear everyone scream up there? What are we going to do?”

“I know what we have to do. We have to kill everyone on this plane.”

As expected, she didn’t understand.

“It’s the only way to know for sure.”

“Know what?”

“That we got the bad guy.”

“There’s only one of them and we know it’s not Billy Joe or Billy Joel.”

“You’re right. We can’t let Billy Joel die,” he lamented, “but we have to make sure Billy Joe does die.”

She nodded in agreement.

Weyland scanned the room, “It looks like we have a food cart, some inflatable vests, luggage, and a coffee pot…”

It looked like nothing to her, but to Weyland-

“We’re going to make a drone.”

“A drone?” thought Rhonda. She had never seen a drone let alone seen one made. She felt like more had happened to her that day than in the whole year. It made her think about the ballroom dancing class she’d always been meaning to take. This was going to be the day she took her life back, but first they had to create a drone.

Weyland got to work and started assembling the drone. He was using more than what he listed, which Rhonda thought was pretty unfair. She would bring it up to him later, but wanted to pick the right time. It was all coming together quite brilliantly. Too bad it was Weyland doing it so it still totally sucked.

He started sweating and getting that same feeling he’d had when he used to handle bombs.

It’s important to now note that Weyland has NEVER served in the military and he HAS sexually assaulted someone.


Like all villains, or the really good ones at least, Jerik revealed his backstory to the frightened passengers while he stroked a white cat that was there for some reason. He went on and on, and Billy Joel could barely concentrate over thinking about the perfect time to say “at least somebody’s getting a little pussy.” If Billy Joel had been listening, he’d have heard your typical “boo hoo, why doesn’t anybody like me” kind of thing. He wanted to kill Billy Joel because he had felt spurned by his hero, and he wanted to kill Billy Joe just because. That made them all feel sympathetic towards him.

“I’m crashing this plane into Joel’s house! And killing Billy Joe and Billy Joel in the process.” His fist came down on the nearest tray like a gavel to an empty courtroom. No one was paying attention.

Billy Joel was back to buying Skymall items, and Billy Joe was playing a PSP because he sucks and has one. It was time for Jerik to make a statement (kill someone).

“Teng!” he called out to the pilot’s cabin, “I’m going to take one of them out.” The response was silence. Teng was dead. Remember?


Jerik immediately thought the worst – was he lowering his voice subconsciously because he lacked confidence? Then he thought the next worst thing – something happened. He started to edge towards the cockpit.

Rhonda walked in right at that moment, pushing a large food cart meant for Billy Joel.

Weyland crouched under the cart to secure the drone, but also because his penis was completely filled with blood and he couldn’t stand. He was waiting for the perfect moment.

“What the hell is going on here?” hissed Jerik. Wasn’t it more fun when we could just call him “the creep”?

The Creep slithered his finger along the trigger, ready to say “bang,” but this time with the gun. Suddenly, back at the cockpit, the pilot was using Teng’s body like a puppet to wave he was OK. It was tasteless at the time, but looking back it was pretty funny.

Weyland could feel the tension ease, so he continued to wait for his perfect moment, his legs coiled like springs ready to explode.

“Only the good die young,’ quipped Billy Joel.

The Pervert growled, “Fuck this,” and blasted Billy Joel in the head. Everyone racked their brain thinking of a Billy Joel song to make a pun of the situation, then they started screaming.

Weyland came tumbling out of the food cart (not tumbling like cartwheels and twirls, though to this day he wishes he would have). He was pretty upset, especially since he didn’t even get to see the Billy Joel shooting. He knew it must have been pretty cool.

He hit the button on the drone, and sure enough, it started flying, spewing steam and hot coffee out of it, disfiguring nearby passengers.

Jerik looked out to the screaming crowd and imagined himself on a stage in front of millions of adoring fans. The vision he had in his mind slowly transformed from hot cheering girls to wailing ugly people. To his left he saw Billy Joel’s lifeless body, looking like a child, mostly because he had defecated himself when he died.

Realizing what he had done, Jerik immediately fell to his knees in tears, which was pretty lucky because the drone immediately stopped working.

Weyland quickly snatched the gun away and pulled it apart. It took him about three minutes, but nothing much happened in that time. People like to take a breather after witnessing a murder.

“Looks like I’m a hero again,” proclaimed Weyland, which everyone immediately regretted him saying, including himself.

They sat in silence for a while as Jerik whimpered on the ground. He was no threat to anyone anymore. Weyland’s job was done.

Rochelle suggested to Jerik, “If you don’t kill us I’ll let you have sex with me.”

Everyone murmured disagreement.

“And let everyone watch.”

Everyone knew it was unnecessary but they obliged her regardless.

Rhonda, “She bangs. She bangs.”

The passengers laughed at her decades old reference and curled into their seats.

They all enjoyed the rest of the flight while watching Rochelle and Jerik, the pervert, have sex. Eventually they ran out of fuel over the Pacific Ocean and crashed, killing everyone on board.

All except one.

Releasing my book “It All Started After a Plane Hijacking with Billy Joel” on my Blog

Two years ago I quit my full time job to write a book. It literally all started with a short story called “A Plane Hijacking Story with Billy Joel” and I loved the main character so much (not Billy Joel) that I kept writing for 37k more words.

Being my first book, it has its issues, and I never fully edited it, so week by week I’ll release a chapter that I’ve edited enough that its readable.

Subscribe to get updates and enjoy the full thing!

Hi, I was the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of my breast pocket


You probably remember me from Josiah’s party last Saturday at Round Table. I was the guy who put down four slices of supreme and about a dozen garlic knots in under five minutes.

Though you may remember me better as the guy who had the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket.

Just to clear things up, it was more of a “I’d rather have it and not need it than need it than not have it” type of situation, and I do realize now that the chances of needing a flesh colored dildo at a 3rd grader’s pizza party (that I wasn’t invited to) were pretty slim, but I never thought that bringing it would lead to me being known as “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket.”

“The guy who could really put down the pizza,” absolutely.

“The last guy to leave the restroom before it was discovered that the sink had been inexplicably ripped from the wall,” maybe.

But “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket?” No way. That was such a small part of who I am and who I was at the party. In fact, after Craig told me that I shouldn’t have come because it was a kid’s party, and because he doesn’t know me that well outside of work, I was fully ready to be “the guy who shouldn’t have been there.” What I’ve been relegated to is simply unfair.

Please stop referring to me as “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket” or I’ll kill Josiah.

I didn’t mean that. But I think you get the point.

Meet Sam. The guy who thinks “intern” means “hooker”

Meet Sam. Sam is like every other 30 year old white male in America except for one thing. Due to an adolescent misunderstanding of the Clinton trial, he thinks that “intern” means “hooker.”

Sam sits down with a laptop. He’s frustrated and overworked. His wife, Julia, notices.

Do you need a snack, honey?

No. I can’t eat right now. I have so much to do for the business.

You’re so overworked. You need an intern.

Very funny.

I’m serious. I think it would be really good for you.

Wait. What?

Yeah. Having someone help you out would be good for you.

You wouldn’t want to do that stuff?

Oh, god no. Are you kidding?

Wow, that kind of makes me really sad, but as long you’re letting me do this, that’s cool.

What’s to be sad about? I’m your wife, not your slave.

When you put it like that, yeah. I mean, this is awesome. It’s just crazy.

It’s not that crazy. I just want you to be less stressed.

I don’t even know where to start to find one.

Look online.

Online? That makes sense. I was kind of worried we’d need to cruise around the streets and pick one off the street.

Hah! What were you thinking? We’d go pick up one of those guys in front of Home Depot?

Jesus. No. A woman. Definitely a woman.

A woman? She better not be pretty. I’ll get jealous.

I think we’re well past that.

You know who you could ask? Our neighbor Stan’s daughter.

Oh, my god. Are you serious? She’s not even out of high school.

I think she’d like the experience before she goes off to college.

That just doesn’t seem like the best way to get experience.

Why? She interned for her father for a little while last Summer.

Jesus, I’m going to be sick.

You’re such a drama queen.

Julia looks on the computer.

Here’s a good one. Do you want to check out her resume? She’s been around. A lot of experience.

Not exactly a high selling point for me, but that’s to be expected. I guess let’s try her.

Ok. I’ll tell her to come in for an interview.

You think I need to interview her?

Yeah. You need to make sure you two get along. So what kind of things are you looking for them to do anyway? Scheduling? Filing?

Suck my dick.

Julia gets straight faced.

I don’t think that’s very funny. I think it’s disrespectful.

We’re already talking about a dirty intern.

Dirty intern? You know I was an intern at my work before I got hired.

What?! The whole company?!

Yeah. Duh.

I just can’t process this.

Why do you have to make this hard? I’m just trying to help you. If you don’t want an intern, don’t get a damn intern-

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. (blurting out) I’ll take Stan’s daughter.

Ok, great. I’ll call Stan and tell him to send her over tomorrow.

Julia leaves.

Holy shit. I’m getting an intern.

Here’s Why You Should Never Wear Shoes Inside

Wearing your shoes inside the house can be a hard habit to break. After all, if you leave your shoes outside they might get stolen by a relative/enemy, or once you’re inside there might be a masked gunman waiting for you, leaving you without a shoe to throw at him.

The alternative isn’t any better. If you leave your shoes in a pile inside your home, people might start calling you “Shoe pile Joe,” or “Shoe pile [whatever your name is]” or even worse, “Shoe pile whatever your name is.”

But the statistic I’m about to tell you will shock you to where you will never wear your shoes inside your house again, or maybe even outside (if you live surrounded by grass or very soft dirt). Here it is:

100% of the people who have worn their shoes inside their house have died, or will die in the future.

Take a moment to let that sink in. 100% of the people. That means that if you’ve worn your shoes inside the house, you’re statistically already dead. If you are in a home right now, and you or anyone around you has their shoes on, you are all as good as ghosts.

It’s a terrifying reminder that we need to watch what we do at every step. Like Kermit the Frog always said, “the only way we’ll ever be truly is safe is when we’re dead.”

Talking Shy, The Shy Ones Aftershow, Episode 1

Fred Le, Joe Cabello, and George Harry Williams III discuss the first episode of The Shy Ones, “Thinkin’ Love – (Ever had a crush?)”

Rather listen? Check out our audio link of the episode.
Audio link:

Watch The Shy Ones episode on here:

Honest text to send at 11:40pm to the girl you’ve been seeing for a week

Honest text to send at 11:40pm to the girl you’ve been seeing for a week:

“hey, just wanted some kind of validation that you like me that I can only get if you text me back instantly because I have nothing else going on in my life other than this, and anything other than you texting back within five seconds will be taken as some sort of concrete evidence, admissible in court, that you don’t like me, until tomorrow when you text me back something sweet and put me at ease until the next 24 hour period when I fall apart again. Also, it must include a smiley, or else that means you hate me.”

Crack isn’t Off the Table for Me Yet

There are some things you just know are off the table after a certain age. Like for me, I know I’m never going to ride a motorcycle. You won’t catch me dead on one of those things, especially after having a near-death experience on an ATV, and those things aren’t even as fast or dangerous as motorcycles. Put it this way, they have twice as many wheels, are half as slow and I still crashed one. What’s going to happen if I get on a motorcycle? I could spontaneously combust for all I know.

One thing that isn’t off the table at this point in my life is crack.

I’m not saying I’m going to do crack, or that I even want to do crack. It’s just something that isn’t completely off the table yet. Like if I were at a Hollywood party and Tom Cruise came up to me and said, “want to do some crack?” I’d do some crack.

Hell, if I was on a date with even a marginally attractive girl and she said, “want to do some crack and fuck around?” I’d do some crack.

Motorcycle? Hell no.

Crack? Where’s Tom at?

That’s not to say my body is a magnet for any and all drugs. I definitely wouldn’t do heroine. The whole needle things freaks me out. I hate needles so much I’d rather get AIDS than take an AIDS test.

That needle or some AIDS? Hook it up with a little bit of AIDS.

Obviously this isn’t the recipe for everyone, or even good life choices, but at least I know myself.

God Issues Product Recall For All Mankind

This was a prompt for a writing gig I didn’t get. Enjoy!


After 6,000 years of production, God has issued a mass product recall for all of mankind, citing issues such as mass violence, destruction of the Earth, Kanye West, and mankind “just generally acting crazy.” According to God’s representatives, the lack of space on Earth was also a small factor, though they do admit the recall is mostly due to a faulty product design.

“After Boko Haram and ISIS, it was pretty apparent that there was something wrong,” said head of God’s public relations, Christopher. “Problems like these just kept popping up, so we had to face that things like slavery, the Holocaust, and gluten allergies weren’t freak occurrences. The product was flawed.”

This isn’t the first time God has considered a recall. Going as far back as 2348 BC developers could foresee trouble. “We had an inkling that there were some problems with the product, but we were hoping they’d work themselves out after the flood,” said longtime developer, John, who is responsible for rainbows. Issues with the product did not end with the flood. Violence, infighting, and now, EDM music, continued to increase with time as the product continued to be released.

According to a Press Release earlier today, God is already planning a new model to replace the recalled humanity. “We’ve been playing around a little bit with down syndrome and Aspergers to avoid some of the older issues of violence and emotional outbursts, but we were just waiting for the tech to catch up. It has, so now we are nearly ready for launch.”

The date of the full product recall can be found on the sign of the dirty homeless man on 3rd and Main St.

Follow me on twitter @joecabello and like my Facebook writer page!


Video Game Review From a Guy Who Sucks at Video Games

SquareBlast has released their newest first person shooter, Let It Rage, a multiplayer warzone with team deathmatch, capture the flag, and a single player campaign. Unfortunately it’s a frustrating mess of a game, with a multiplayer that is almost impossible to play.


The game’s key feature, the multiplayer mode, falls apart completely. First off, it’s practically impossible to kill anyone, yet everyone else can get a ton of kills on me. My cross hair will be right on the guy and I’ll shoot like a million times, but then he’ll knife me. It doesn’t make any sense. How can everyone else be so good but I suck? This game just came out. It really doesn’t make any sense.

Grade: D

The guns

The guns are really awesome, except for the fact that the gun system is broken. Other guys online are killing me with the pistol, even when I have the strongest gun. I thought it was the accuracy, but when they use the strongest gun they get perfect shots on me. Something is wrong with the balance of the game. It’s definitely not me. I’m usually really great.

It can’t be me.

Grade: D

Single player

The single player is obviously an afterthought, as is evident by the short campaign, but it’s very good compared to the multiplayer, at least on the easier settings. Once medium or higher is chosen, the game breaks and even the low level bad guys are killing me.

Grade: C


Jason is my friend and he’s a total dick. He only goes after me when we play multiplayer, even though there’s so many other people playing. It’s like he always knows where I am. It’s probably some bug I haven’t figured out yet, but he has. I know he’s not a part of the game for everyone, but I’m sure there are other Jasons out there who are somehow exploiting the bugs with this game.

Grade: F


Where did I go wrong? What the fuck is wrong with me. I’m 27. I should be good at something by this point in my life.